


His Own Skin

by thetreesgrowodd



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Dark, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Magic, Nonsense, Serious Injuries, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetreesgrowodd/pseuds/thetreesgrowodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard lives alone in a giant library after his... accident.</p><p>It's ok, though. He has his books, his shiny scissors, his talking pebbles, and his dust. One day he'll combine them in the right way to make the magic work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly experimental thing I wrote while trying to overcome writer's block.

Sometimes, Leonard just stared at his own ten rosy-pink fingers and felt terror.

He was not a normal boy. He knew this because the grown-ups wrote about it in the letters they sent to each other, and he took the letters out of the desk and read them in the privacy of the library. One had once said "Leonard is uncomfortable in his own skin" and Leonard had thought they'd only gotten it half-right — he was uncomfortable not only with the inside of his skin, but the _outside_ as well. He didn't like for other people's skin to touch his skin, and that was only slightly worse than the sensation of his own skin touching _itself_. At night, he lay spread-eagled in bed, trying to keep his limbs and fingers from touching each other, having to resort to tucking his clothes or sheets in places he couldn't prevent his skin from touching.

He also hated he fine hair on his arms, and sometimes stared at it, perplexed that it even existed. There was a large, gleaming pair of scissors in the library, and he'd tried to use them to cut it all off. He'd nicked himself and now had a scar on his right forearm which he quite liked and looked at often.

Leonard found his body's appearance so dizzying and strange that he took baths with his good eye screwed shut. He had certain rituals he did in the bath that he was sure, if he ever did them perfectly, would surely change him into something else, something _better_. But they were so complicated they never worked.

He didn't need the letters to tell him he was _wrong_. He was aware of it all the time.


	2. The Eye

What Leonard _had_ learned from the letters was that he was the son of a well-to-do family who had sent him away after his... injury. This house he lived in was just one of their many houses. Aside from Leonard, the only people who lived in it were servants.

Nobody wanted to look at him after his injury. Nobody wanted to really tell him how it had happened, either. He didn't remember it, but then he didn't remember much of anything before he'd come here — not his family, not where he had lived, not what had happened on that day. All he knew was that his left eye was gone and that there were raised red scars around the empty socket.

On the rare occasions he went out — usually when one of the servants took him to buy new clothes — he wore an eyepatch. It didn't hide all of the scars, though. Some big kids had seen him once and laughed and asked if a cat had scratched his eye out, so he supposed that the scars must look like they'd been caused by animal claws. He needed a better eyepatch — one that hid them. When he got back to the library, he made a new one for himself that covered all evidence of his injury. It was a strip of cloth that tied on like a blindfold, only he'd cut a hole for his other eye so he could see.

It scared him that he was down to one eye, because he loved to read more than anything else, and he knew that if something happened to his other eye, he wouldn't be able to anymore. That it would be possible for someone _else_ to read aloud to him was something that had never crossed Leonard's mind, because no one ever had. He had no education or guidance. He rarely even saw the servants.

But he was just allowed free run of the library, and Leonard could imagine no better place.


	3. The Library

Leonard felt safe there, in the library. Smaller. As if no one on Earth could find him, because everyone had so completely forgotten the library.

He was tall enough now to see the books on the fourth shelf without standing on tiptoe. As for the higher shelves — what he couldn't reach, he could climb for. He didn't waste time with the ladders, just went right up the shelves, naked toes flexing and gripping as he went.

The library layout was eclectic, with freestanding bookcases of different heights sitting on different levels, in little clusters instead of rows. There was a whole other world up on their dusty tops. Sometimes — although he had a proper bedroom with a proper bed — he slept in the darkest corner of the library, behind the furthest bookcase. He could curl himself up so small — because his skin touching itself _didn't matter_ in the library.

Leonard was fascinated with some of the books — certain topics, titles, and authors' names. They were mostly nonfictional books from around the world. He stared at the pages, tried to puzzle out the foreign languages, looked for deeper meaning in the pictures. He often created stacks and piles of books that he felt ought to go together, although he couldn't explain why he felt that they should. He thought that if he could just arrange them in the right order they would combine into something new — open up some hidden truth or alternate reality. If the dust from those ancient pages mixed in the right ratios, he could breathe it in and be transformed.

He shaved off slivers from the margins with the shiny scissors and kept them in his pockets like a talisman. He ate some of them, too, especially on the infrequent days he had to leave the library.

He wasn't usually allowed to go outside, and never by himself. All of the windows in the house had bars and the doors had heavy locks. It didn't seem abnormal, because it was all he knew.

Once, on a trip outside, he was able to pocket three pebbles, unseen. He was ecstatic. Because Leonard could do something with them that no one else knew about.


	4. The Magic

Leonard didn't know how he'd learned to do the magic, only that he _could_.

First, he needed three nearly-identical objects that were small and light enough to easily arrange.

That part was hard, because by its very nature the library was full of things that were all _different_. No two books there were the same. Also, the magic was finicky about what types of objects could be used. Leonard had experimented with different objects he could find around the library — dust clumps, paper clips, dead houseflies — and none of them worked.

But he'd managed it once with three red apples, and another time with three teacups filled with water, which had danced and shimmered as he'd walked around them on the old, creaking wood floors. But the servants — who never cleaned the library or cared what he got up to in there all day long — caused a fuss over him stealing things from the kitchen, and he wasn't able to take things from there again.

Secondly, he needed to position himself and the three objects carefully. Getting them properly aligned was tricky. To get it right, Leonard drew circles and lines in the dust, forming complicated geometric shapes. Where the lines intersected, he placed the objects. He wasn't sure if the lines themselves were absolutely necessary to make the magic work or just helpful, but they had become part of the ritual.

Thirdly, he had to concentrate hard. If he did that, and if he'd gotten everything else right, then the three objects would talk to him in his head. He knew that he wasn't actually hearing the voices with his ears, but it wasn't the same as just pretending or hallucinating that he heard the voices either. It was somewhere in the middle.

The three pebbles were perfect. The magic always worked when he used them. When he was done, he hid them behind books on the shelves and wiped away his lines in the dust.


	5. The Boys

They were always the same voices — the same _people_. Three boys like himself. Leonard had no doubt they actually existed out there somewhere in the world, although when they tried to talk about factual things like where they lived or even what their _names_ were, it all came out as gibberish or their voices faded away and became inaudible.

But aside from that, they could talk endlessly. Tell stories. Share dreams. Talk about their lives. They were alone too and — though they never said it — they were lonely. Even though none of them lived all alone in a library, even if Leonard couldn't relate to their stories about school and friends and parents — they were _like Leonard_. They didn't belong in their own lives, in their own skin. They all understood each other.

The one in the pebble on the left was confined somehow, not just locked in physically but also by learned ideas and beliefs. He was imaginative — whimsical — but Leonard heard him verbally hitting against the bars of the cage, stopping himself mid-thought. And it hurt. Leonard wanted to open the door for him.

The one in front spent his days working at his family's business, doing carpentry and woodworking. It kept him physically exhausted but mentally starved. He wanted to _learn_. He yearned for access to the kind of books Leonard was surrounded by.

The one on the right talked about fights and punishments and being wronged — a stepfather, a teacher, other students. He whispered about dark fantasies of payback and revenge, about being stronger than they were... and although Leonard knew it was wrong, it _thrilled_ him.

Talking to them had been hard at first, but it taught Leonard how to really _talk_ to other people. Sometimes he thought about meeting the other boys in person. It gave him an excited, nervous buzz that made him get up and pace. Would they really be friends if they met in person? What would they think about his weirdness? His scars?

Right now, all he could do was get their voices to come through, but someday... if Leonard just did the right things and put the books in the right order, some giant puzzle would all click into place and bring the boys here and then — and then... Leonard didn't know what. They'd go somewhere together, start a new life together, make sense of things together.


	6. The Salesman

A bell was ringing downstairs. Leonard became aware of it gradually, then all at once, and looked up from rereading one of his favorites. The doorbell? How long had it been ringing?

Leonard put the book aside, curious. Why weren't the servants answering the door? And... what if _he_ did? He'd never even been through the front door. On the rare occasions he'd left the house, he'd been taken through the kitchen door. But that didn't mean he couldn't open it.

He put on his eyepatch and went to the deserted foyer and worked out how to undo all of the locks. He opened it and —

A man stood there, wearing a dark suit and carrying a case. He said he was a door-to-door salesman — kitchen knives, pocket knives, hunting knives. He opened the case and Leonard — dazzled by what he saw — realized it wasn't just the fancy library scissors that he liked — it was all blades.

He was wary of strangers, but he knew about door-to-door salesmen from reading about them in books. They were a real, legitimate thing. Anyway, you didn't leave people standing on the doorstep. You didn't lurk in thresholds. It was rude. Shy though he was because of his own appearance, he let the salesman in.

The man told Leonard all about the knives — _oh! They gleamed in the light!_ — and let him browse them at his leisure. It was strange that this person spent so much time trying to sell his wares to a lone boy, but Leonard was too sheltered to know it. Eventually though, he realized that the man would want money for the wonderful things he was selling. Leonard didn't have any, but the servants must have some. They bought food and things all the time.

Leonard went to the staircase that led down to the kitchen so he could find the servants, but the salesman stopped him short by grabbing his arm.

As Leonard twisted and jerked away — _this person's skin was touching his_ — he saw the shine of one of the knives in his hand.

It swung at Leonard, becoming a blur. It was aimed at his heart, but Leonard had reacted so violently to being touched that he was already in motion, so the blade bit into his shoulder instead. The pain took a moment to catch up. When it did, the scars on Leonard's face seemed to _scream_ along with it.

It was worse than the cut he'd accidentally made on his own arm with the scissors. Much worse. This man could do him real harm. Cut deep. Into his muscles and internal organs. Destroy them, like his eye. Maybe hurt him enough that he couldn't reach the books on the high shelves anymore. Or read them. Or talk to his brothers anymore.

His _brothers_? When had he started to think of the other three boys like that?


	7. The Blades

Leonard broke free and instinctively ran for his safe haven — the library. He slammed and locked the heavy door behind him. His hands shook as he got the three pebbles out of their hiding place. He couldn't climb up the shelves with the injury to his shoulder, so he stacked the nearest books and used them as a step stool. Blood was running down his arm and spattering everywhere as he drew the symbols in a patch of dust and arranged the rocks. All the while, he could hear the salesman pounding on the door. It was starting to crack — he could hear it.

Leonard needed help and there was only one way to get it. He shut everything else out and concentrated, until he heard his brothers' voices. He shouted out — over the sound of the blows against the door — that he needed help, that he was about to be _murdered_. The other boys frantically wanted to come and help him, but what good did that do? They were far away.

Then all at once he knew how to make the magic work to bring them here. Instead of just looking at the stones, he had to bring them close — he _had to touch them_. He picked up two in his hands, then put the third in his mouth. With all three surrounded by his body, he shut his eye and summoned his brothers to him.

Three boys — unfamiliar but familiar all at the same time — sprang up out of the dust, one standing at each point where the lines converged.

The door burst open and the salesman came in, now nearly unrecognizable. The knife blades were all covering his body like spiky armor.

Leonard wouldn't be killed. Not with his brothers at his side. Not when he'd finally brought them here. Leonard thrust the pebbles into his pocket and leapt down to the floor. He may not have as many blades as the salesperson, but he had — Leonard grabbed his scissors and wrenched the blades apart, breaking the pivot that had held them together — two. One for each hand. And they would be enough.


	8. The Blood

When the salesman lunged for Leonard, the three other boys stepped forward. They couldn't get close without risking getting cut, but they darted around him like moths around a light, confusing him, slowing him down.

Leonard watched for an opening, then struck. His blades slipped through gaps in the man's armor, as improbable as lightning striking a precise point.

The body fell, and blood ran and ran and ran out over the blades.

The four boys stood around the body, stunned and amazed, panting like they'd just run a mile. Leonard knew that killing was wrong, and yet... this wasn't wrong. This wasn't wrong at all. He glanced up at the other three — dark and fair, tall and short — they were all different, but also alike. They were sneaking curious glances at each other, awed at actually being together.

They dragged the salesman's body down to the basement. There was no proper floor, just hard-packed earth, and that was where they buried him — not out of respect, but because putting him under the ground felt so wonderfully final.

The servants had all vanished without a trace. Leonard didn't know — were they dead? Paid off? Tricked into quitting? It didn't really matter, since he was leaving and never coming back.

The front door wouldn't open again, though. His brothers started searching for other ways out. Leonard wanted to help them, but he didn't feel right... too hot, then too cold. He sat down in the foyer and stared at the bars over the windows. His injured arm was numb, and his face felt like it had been sliced open all over again.

One of his brothers noticed and sat next to him, looking worried. (What was his name? Leonard _almost_ knew it. It sounded a bit like the time of day when the sun rose.) He put his hand on Leonard's forehead. For once, Leonard didn't mind being touched. For once, it felt nice.

"You have a fever," his brother said. "You need to get to bed. Don't worry — we'll stay and look after you. We can all leave together later, when you're better."

"Leo! My — my name is Leo!" Leonard gasped out, even though he'd always been _Leonard_ and had never had a nickname before. He pulled off the eyepatch, revealing his scars and empty eye socket. "That man, I think he... I can't really remember, but a long time ago..." Leo shook his head, unable to get the words out.

His brother, far from being repulsed, put his arms around Leo.


	9. The Cell

"Is he any better?" Mike asked, kneeling down on the filthy cell floor next to Leo.

Don shook his head. "He's still shivering. And the bleeding hasn't really stopped." He was sitting behind Leo, holding him against his plastron.

"God, Donnie, there's so much blood. He's — he's not going to be ok, is he? Tell me the truth."

"I really don't know," Don said.

"Don't get distracted, Mikey," Raph snapped. "You're supposed to be helping me get us outta here." 

"I tried! It's hopeless!" Mike said.

"Dammit!" Raph rattled the barred cell door in anger, teeth bared. Then he slumped forward, head hanging. "I hate to say it, but I think you're probably right."

"We may have to just try to talk our way out the next time they come to check on us," Don suggested. "We'll think of something."

"Oh yeah — 'hey, sorry Leo killed the head of the Foot Clan. No hard feelings, right? Think you could let us out, and maybe treat the wounds he got in the process?'" Raph asked in a mocking voice.

Don sighed. "Ok then, one of you take him for a while. Let me look at that door."

Before Mike could volunteer, Raph strode over and sat next to them. Together he and Don resettled Leo against Raph. Raph gave an ineffectual brush at his hands to get them cleaner before pressing them against Leo's still-bleeding wounds.

"I — I never found out," Leo began in a weak voice.

Don froze in the act of standing up. Surprised to hear Leo speak, they all leaned in closer.

"Your names?" Leo asked. "What are they?"


End file.
